


The Wolf and the Mermaid

by stevem1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adventure, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevem1/pseuds/stevem1
Summary: This story diverges from canon in that after a troubling and barely remembered dream, Wyman Manderly visits Winterfell and asks Ned if he can take Jon as a ward and possible husband for Wynafryd.  In other words, this is my effort at a pseudo-time travel story.I’m simultaneously writing a similar story, called the Wolf and the Bear, but Maege Mormont is the character possessing vague knowledge of future events.  I wanted to use the same premise, but plot the similarities and differences in outcomes between loyal, rich Manderly with less time and a loyal, poor Mormont with more time.In both AUs, Robert’s visit to Winterfell will occur when Jon and Robb are about 17/18 (300 AC).  This AU starts about 6 years before Robert’s visit, so they are roughly 11/12 years old.The above is for those who care about dates.  I don’t really.  I’m just writing a story.Keep in mind that the Wolf and the Mermaid and the Wolf and the Bear are not in the same AU.  They are separate.
Relationships: Wynafryd Manderly/Jon Snow
Comments: 54
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer- This is a work of fan fiction using characters from George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series. I do not claim any ownership over any characters or the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. I’m only borrowing some of his characters and settings to practice fiction writing. This fanfiction story is for entertainment only, I will make no money off of it, and is not part of the official story line.

W&M W&M W&M

Wyman Manderly woke with a start, his eyes suddenly open, startled, fearful. His skin was clammy and he was covered in a cold sweat. His breathing was hoarse and rasping. His blood pounded in his ears.

It took a moment for him to orient himself. He was not lying in a deep field of snow, bleeding out after a pale, inhuman creature with ice blue eyes had driven a freezing sword deep into his gut. He was lying in the dark, in a bed covered in furs. His bed. In his room in the Merman’s Court.

He was warm, he reassured himself desperately, remembering the bitter, bone cutting cold. He was safe. He was alive. He wiggled his fingers and toes to test that theory. He almost laughed in relief when his body responded.

It had been a dream. A bloody, terrifying nightmare, he corrected as his mind flashed back to barely half remembered terrors. His son, Wendel, killed by the bloody Freys and Boltons. His granddaughters betrothed to his murderers. After some initial victories, his men were decimated, in battle after battle due to treachery. 

Then he remembered fragments of dragons. His limbs trembled at even those dim, broken recollections. Dragons of fire and dragons of ice. He was embarrassed to have to struggle a moment in controlling his bowels. Tears covered his face as he disjointedly remembered flames consuming entire armies.

He drew a horrified breath. The Starks, dead. Ned, killed for treason in the far south. Robb, betrayed at a wedding. Bran and Rickon murdered by the Boltons or the iron born, he couldn’t remember which, the memory already becoming hazy. Ned’s daughters gone missing, Arya likely murdered and Sansa vanished after being forced into a marriage with the Imp of the Lannisters.

And his bastard, Jon Snow, declared king. Or maybe that was Robb. As panicked as he was, the details were already draining away like water through a sieve. 

The king leading one last, forlorn and impossible charge against an army of the dead. Probably the bastard, he thought, remembering the king’s dark curls. A charge he participated in, together with his cousin, Marlon. The charge that resulted in his death, though he could already feel the vision slipping away, though the phantom pain in his gut lingered.

For the life of him he couldn’t remember what had happened to his son, Wyllas. Or his granddaughters after their betrothal. Nothing was more important to him than family, but he could not dredge up the memory of their fates.

He laughed weakly. Their fates in a nonsense dream. He was being an old fool to worry about it. His laughter turned into a hacking cough that took minutes for him to control.

He laid still for many minutes thereafter, collecting his gasping breath, slowing his heart beat. He noticed he was clutching his furs, like a child seeking protection from night terrors. He despised himself for the weakness, though it took time to eventually convince himself to let go of the furs.

Once he felt able, he heaved his considerable bulk out of his bed. He could not deny that he was a large man, an excessively large man. His four chins attested to that immutable fact. He knew his bulk was the result of his overfondness of lamprey pie and Arbor gold, coupled with a complete lack of physical activity. He watched the fat jiggle as he stood. He couldn’t stop the thought that he needed to lose weight if what he dreamt was real, if he was to be ready to fight.

He snorted. It wasn’t real. It was obviously just a dream. Ned Stark executed for treason? No one in their right mind would believe it. It was just a horrible nightmare, brought on by too much ale and a bad pie. 

Or three, he amended, thinking of the number of courses he’d consumed. He really should cut back.

He stumbled over to his wash basin, a large bronze bowl crafted in the shape of a seashell, and splashed water onto his face. His large, sausage size fingers were clumsy and awkward. 

That wasn’t normal, he thought, freezing. Despite his size, he was known for his grace, his ability to move his body well. He was never uncoordinated. Something was wrong.

He stopped and looked at his hands. They were still shaking. He laughed again, a long shuddering thing. He was unmanned by night terrors. He almost cried in frustration, but didn’t. He knew if he started, he’d not be able to stop.

He stood erect as he could and breathed deeply. He stayed there, still, for minutes, thinking, collecting himself. Everything about the nightmare was turning to cobwebs in his mind, which pleased him to no end. Some things are best forgotten, especially fantastical nightmares, he reassured himself.

Finally, he clad his bulk in a large, food stained, ermine robe and exited his room. A household knight stood guard outside of it. Ser Ondrew, he remembered. A good, loyal man. A feeble light shone in the stone corridor of the castle, cast by a lone torch.

“I’m headed to my solar,” he said quietly, his normally jovial voice subdued. “After the sun rises, find my sons and cousin. Ask them to join me.”

It was just a dream, a nightmare, he knew. Nothing to be concerned with, just a childish, irrational fear. He couldn’t even remember most of it, and those parts he did were broken, hazy fragments. Certainly nothing to share with his family. They’d think he’d taken leave of his senses.

He’d simply decided to approve Marlon’s long requested improvements to White Harbor’s defenses. They were long overdue, he convinced himself. Seal Rock was a disgrace, with its crumbled walls and towers. They were a merchant ship’s first view of White Harbor and they were incredibly unsightly. They certainly didn’t impress or inspire fear. They needed to be repaired and improved, if only to protect the House’s reputation. 

As well as the defensive towers set along the mile long wall separating the outer and inner harbors. It was important that their trading partners feel secure when visiting White Harbor, after all. 

His decision had nothing to do with an overly vivid nightmare. That would be childish. Wyman Manderly was no child to be unmanned by a dream.

He also thought it was probably time to acquiesce to his sons’ requests to increase the number of warships and men in service. Wendel had long been complaining of the lack of a reliable force of archers. He claimed the House relied too much on crossbowmen. Wyman agreed with him, now. A dedicated company or two of archers would serve the House well, which would make his second son happy. 

Maybe even more companies would be well advised. After all, more men would be needed to man Marlon’s restored and improved fortifications. 

Wyllas had long desired more ships. Wyman decided his eldest deserved a chance to prove himself as an independent leader. Giving him command of a new fleet and expanded shipyard would allow him to develop critical leadership and management skills while at the same time preserving the current fleet for existing commitments. Skills his heir would doubtless need in the future. It would be coin well spent, he decided decisively.

Though it might be wiser to focus on building more trading cogs, fishing sloops and whaling schooners instead of warships, he mused. Raising a warfleet would certainly cause consternation amongst his neighbors. Even Lord Stark might take a dim view. 

But they’d understand the desire for more trade. It was in the blood of every Manderly. Wyllas would not complain as certain cog, sloop and schooner designs could be easily converted to war, if need be. He would certainly appreciate the opportunity to expand the shipyards.

In the meantime, the ships could be put to productive use. They’d be manned, with good, reliable men, and held in service. Their catches, especially of whale and seal, could be converted to more silver. The fish could be dried, salted and sent down the ice pits for later use. 

Years later, even. There was no shame in preparing an excessive, even an obsessive, amount for the next winter. No one ever complained of an overprepared lord when true winter arrived, he thought smugly. 

He was already feeling better now that he was able to plan. Coin was not wasted building more ships, improving walls, training men, and forging more arms and armor. The value in silver would still pass through generations, just in another form, he reassured himself.

Wyman Manderly had silver aplenty. He only had two sons and two granddaughters. Nightmare or not, he’d consider the coin well spent if they and future generations of Manderlys were better protected. 

W&M W&M W&M

Wyman’s ornate wagon slowly approached Winterfell’s gatehouse. He’d left White Harbor weeks ago with an escort of a hundred mounted knights, but his progress had been slow. Both because he took care to avoid Bolton lands and, he admitted, because he was too heavy to sit a horse and had to be pulled in a wagon with frequent stops.

His inability to ride caused him some personal grief. As a young man he’d been an excellent horseman and a fair hand with a lance. Now he was mocked. Once, he was a tourney champion. Now, they called him Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse. 

He knew his enemies considered him foolish due to his extreme obesity. His inability to ride was the subject of mockery and scorn. They thought him weak and, therefore, craven.

Let them think that, he sighed contentedly as he took a drink from his flagon, only to grimace. Cold lemon water, he thought disgusted. He’d much rather be drinking Arbor gold. 

But he was a man of strong will, no matter the inane ramblings of his enemies. He knew he needed to reduce his girth and add some muscle. If the near forgotten nightmare was false, then he’d be healthier and would better enjoy his twilight years. Maybe he’d live long enough to see great-grandchildren. If true, he’d be better prepared for the troubles to come. 

As a Manderly, he was well versed in calculating cost in comparison to reward. On this issue, unlike many others, he benefited no matter what was true and what was not, so he’d set his mind to seeing it through.

No matter how wonderful an extra slice of pie might be, it was not worth the lives of his progeny.

When they arrived at Winterfell proper, Lady Catelyn was standing at the gate, ready to greet his party. She was flanked by a boy he recognized as Robb Stark and a girl he thought must be Sansa Stark based on how closely she resembled the Lady of Winterfell. There was no sign of Jon, or the younger two Stark children.

Behind them stood Winterfell’s staff. Ser Rodrick, the Master of Arms, and his grandson, Jorey who served as Captain of the Guard. Behind the two Cassels stood a large number of stewards and grooms who would assist in accommodating the Manderlys once they were made welcome by the Lady. 

Another boy, a tall teenager with a mocking expression, stood somewhat apart from the Starks. The hostage, Wyman recognized. A sense of revulsion permeated his body. He didn’t remember what he did in the dream, but it was bad, he knew. He’d see this boy dead at first opportunity, despite not knowing why.

He did not make the best impression on any of them. The wagon only had a narrow cut out for an entrance. He found it difficult to maneuver his bulk through it. He struggled. He only succeeded when finally assisted by two of his stronger men. He could only imagine what Lady Stark and her children were thinking.

But Catelyn Stark had been raised well by Hoster Tully. She waited patiently, with a welcoming smile painted on her face, taking no obvious notice of the fumbling and cursing that accompanied his leaving his wagon. 

Her two children did fidget while waiting, but that was only to be expected of children of their young age. If he were to guess, the boy was only eleven and the girl about nine. Everything considered, he was impressed with their good manners.

Not so much with the hostage. A smirk was added to the mocking cast of his face. Wyman wondered if he could arrange for a long fall from a tall tower. Reluctantly, he put those thoughts aside. The Iron Born would take it amiss if their heir was accidentally killed in Lord Stark’s care. Maybe if the accident was arranged elsewhere, it might be possible, he mused. The thought alone of killing Theon Greyjoy caused a warmth to permeate his body.

Finally, he was clear of the infernal wagon. Wyman approached Lady Stark and the children, taking a deep breath, both to expand his lungs and to collect his thoughts. She spoke before he could, obviously thinking he was out of breath.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Manderly,” she said graciously. As she spoke she handed him a small bronze bowl containing a small bit of bread and some salt. “We would be pleased to have you and your party as our guests.”

He gratefully took the salt and bread. His greedy stomach demanded more than the mere nibble offered. He ignored its rumblings, as did Lady Stark. She really was a jewel.

“Thank you, Lady Stark,” he said as he half mimicked a bow. “It is good to be here, among friends.” He cast his eyes over the crowd. “Is Lord Stark not available?”

He’d sent a raven ahead seeking an audience with the Lord of the North. He probably should have waited for a return message before setting out, he knew, but he was not one for dithering when he set his mind on something.

A look of regret passed over his host’s face. “I am sorry, Lord Manderly,” she said sincerely. “Lord Stark was called out to Bear Island a sennight ago. I do expect him back any day, however.” She hesitated. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds, but perhaps I can be of assistance?”

He almost declined her offer, but then he stopped himself. A large portion of what he wished to address did touch on domestic issues. At least that was the excuse he was using to disguise the true reasons for his proposals. Lady Stark could be a valuable ally, especially as his sources were of the opinion she disliked Snow.

He nodded, pleased. “I would be happy to discuss my business with Lord Stark with you, my lady. Your input would be invaluable. Perhaps someplace more private?”

“Of course, my lord. Please follow me,” she said as she gestured to the children that they were released.

The children looked relieved and ran off to do whatever children did in Winterfell. The hostage walked off in the direction of Wintertown, doubtless to indulge himself in some tavern unless Wyman missed his guess. The grooms and stewards began to gather the reins of horses and escort his men to their barracks. Wyman’s troops appeared to be in good hands.

Lady Stark led him into her solar. It was a small space, but open and airy. A septa sat along one wall, engaged in embroidery, an obvious chaperone. Tully and Stark tapestries decorated the walls above open windows. When she invited him to sit, he took a seat on a cushioned bench, not a wooden chair.

“Now what brings you to Winterfell, my lord?” she asked politely.

“The natural son of Lord Stark, Jon Snow, and other items of interest for my House,” he responded amiably. He was not entirely surprised to see her eyes narrow. It was an open secret in the North that Lady Stark did not approve of Snow’s presence at Winterfell. 

“What is your concern with the boy?” Her tone was considerably more frigid than her initial greeting.

Wyman smiled politely. “Peace, Lady Stark,” he said quietly. “I believe we have similar interests. I would like to take the boy to White Harbor. He would serve as my cousin’s squire. When he’s off age, I’d see him knighted and married to my eldest granddaughter, Wynafryd.”

He knew that his offer would surprise her. He did not expect the stunned silence. “Jon being fostered elsewhere is in everyone’s interests, though my lord husband does not agree. But why would you want to give your granddaughter a bastard husband?”

“I would prefer to give her Robb Stark,” he said, spreading his hands wide. Flattery never hurt during negotiations, he knew. “But I suspect that Lord Stark has grander plans for him.” Seeing her nod in affirmation, he lifted his shoulders with a regretful sigh. “The only other boy with Stark blood within a few years of her is Jon Snow. While Robb is far preferable as a match, the Snow boy has one distinct advantage. He’s highborn with no name.” 

Lady Stark looked at a loss for a moment, before a dawning understanding appeared on her face. “You’d have him take the Manderly name.”

He smiled jovially. “Yes. It would allow my line to continue even in the absence of a male heir. Wynafryd would rule as the Lady of White Harbor and Jon would be her consort.”

Catelyn frowned. “He would be her lord husband. He would rule in her right.” Wyman had the distinct impression that she very much disapproved of Jon exercising the power of White Harbor. Overprotective mothers are so predictable, he mentally sighed. 

“Not if the betrothal agreement said otherwise,” he disputed. Now to set the hook. “Plus there is a distinct benefit to your children, Lady Stark. Neither he nor his heirs would ever bear the Stark name. They’d forever more be Manderlys.”

That, he saw, appealed to her very much. He eased back to let her consider matters. No need to appear needy. He was doing the Starks a favor, not the other way around. But that did remind him of the other issue.

“There is another item I wanted to address with Lord Stark,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.

“That is?” she asked, her thoughts still clearly on Jon Snow and the trouble he represented. 

“I would like to build two holdfasts, both on the Fever River. One at the mouth, one at the headwaters.” He saw her stiffen in protest. No lord liked a vassal growing too powerful, and the Manderlys were powerful enough by any estimation. “One each to be granted to my cousin’ sons, but sworn directly to Winterfell.” Lady Stark relaxed at that, he was pleased to see. “If Jon weds Wynafryd, Marlon might turn bitter. He and his sons have doubtless been entertaining the possibility that they would someday serve as Lord of White Harbor. This would do much to draw the sting.”

And, he added, protect the southern approach into the North. Two strong keeps in the deep south would go a long way to secure the North, even if Moat Cailin was never improved.

Lord Stark would never give him command of Moat Cailin, even if he offered to pay for construction of new defenses. It was far too powerful a fortress. It had never fallen from an attack from the south in thousands of years. Keeping it in Stark hands was vital to the interests of the North. 

He doubted he’d even consider awarding it to a natural son, like Jon. Any man with sense would realize that ties of affection would dissipate in a few generations. Wyman did not want to raise the issue for fear the Starks interpreted it as a greedy grasp for more power. If Lord Stark awarded Moat Cailin to anyone, Wyman thought, it would be Bran, the infant second son.

Much better that it be seen that he merely wanted holdings for his cousin’s sons, and a husband with Stark blood for Wynafryd. Keeping Lord Stark’s trust was vital in the coming years and asking too much would only sow mistrust.

“What if one of your sons gives you a grandson?” she asked, her eyes glinting with curiosity. Wyman was actually pleased with this question. It allowed him to reduce the possibility that Jon would ever actually rule White Harbor, in Lady Stark’s mind, and would make her more likely to support the proposal.

“Then my son’s son inherits,” he replied happily. “My hope is that I am given many grandsons. My sons are still young, after all. There is plenty of time,” he lied. Leonore, Wyllas’s wife, was incapable of bearing more children, according to the maester. And Wendel’s preferences laid elsewhere. Wynafryd and Wylla were the only two grandchildren he’d have. But Lady Stark had no need to know that. “If so, I’ll settle a small but rich holding on Wynafryd. She and Jon will be well provided for, I assure you.”

That appeared to please Lady Stark greatly. After that, they spent a delightful afternoon hammering out the details. Lord Stark couldn’t possibly refuse, he thought later that evening.

W&M W&M W&M

AN: Don’t expect fast updates on this. I know where it’s going but I have a lot of story ideas in my head and like writing wherever my fingers take me. My focus for the moment is Ser Jon, Lord of Castamere.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

W&M W&M W&M

Lord Stark refused him.

Wyman couldn’t believe his ears as his liege lord spoke. He’d refused him.

He’d refused the chance of his bastard inheriting one of the richest holdings in Westeros. He couldn’t believe it.

Wyman was a proud man. He knew very well that White Harbor was the fifth most prosperous city in the Seven Kingdoms. It was a city even a king would be pleased to see granted to one of his natural children.

Well, not a king like Robert, he amended. He doubted Robert even knew who his bastards were. But Eddard Stark did; he only had the one after all. And Lord Stark refused him.

He kept his face carefully schooled as Lord Stark droned on. He smiled when it was appropriate to smile, and made a sympathetic, understanding face when that appeared prudent.

Not that he understood Lord Stark’s position. It was madness. He’d even refused letting Marlon take Jon as his squire. Who would refuse his bastard the chance to squire for a lord? Still, Wyman nodded in sympathy when his lord explained that the boy needed to be around his family. 

Arguing with Lord Stark would serve no purpose. Best to appear accepting and conciliatory.

In hindsight, he reflected, enlisting Lady Catelyn as an ally to press his suit was a mistake. Her enmity for the boy was well known. Doubtless Lord Stark suspected some underhanded purpose in their alliance of convenience.

No, he was sure it was a mistake. He should have provoked her into some public outburst about the bastard, then approached Lord Stark to help solve the problem between the boy and his wife. He’d misplayed his hand.

Wyman Manderly was a merchant prince in every sense of the word. This negotiation had failed. It was time to part on good terms. He’d re-engage later, once he had more information or circumstances changed.

He did need more information. Why Lord Stark would refuse this chance for Jon was a mystery. There was another mystery surrounding the boy; the identity of his mother. He wondered if the two were connected.

Even if he’d lost Jon, it wasn’t like this visit was a complete loss. Lord Stark had agreed to his plan to build a keep and settlement at both the mouth and headwaters of the Fever River. The only condition was their lords would be sworn to Winterfell, not White Harbor. 

Marlon and his sons would be pleased. Martyn and Mattis would finally be lords. Wyman smiled. He’d already spent weeks stockpiling the materials, employing the skilled tradesman and gathering the laborers. All it would take is a raven and they’d be on their way.

Wyman did not intend for a day to be wasted. Time was money, after all. His promptness in preparation had absolutely nothing to do with the pressing sense of dread he’d felt since that nightmare. It was just a dream, he reminded himself, as he contemplated the next step in his plan.

Lord Stark had finished speaking, so Wyman bowed. “Thank you for your many courtesies, Lord Stark. I speak for all of White Harbor when I say we appreciate your generosity and thoughtfulness. We are your men, my lord.” He then awkwardly, clumsily, took a knee before the Lord of the North.

His liege appeared relieved, if Wyman was any judge of what accounted for emotion on Lord Stark’s normally frozen face. When Eddard Stark motioned for him to rise, he decided to press for just a bit more. A small gain added to another, then another, soon became a large gain, after all.

He rose stiffly, more than a little clumsy, his bulk being an impediment, but still he managed. He was getting stronger, he thought. 

“If I may, my lord?” he asked with a smile.

Seeing the other man’s cautious nod, he continued, “some of my whalers have asked about resupply points on their return journey. The Skagos Islands are the best suited. My men fear the Skagosi but Skane is uninhabited. Might my ships have permission to take on water at Skane? Perhaps establish a small base there for that purpose? And if I were allowed to recruit some Skagosi, it might help in dealing with them and negotiating for supplies.”

Eddard Stark frowned at this request, but Wyman remained calm. He knew his lord well enough to know he was just thinking matters over. Lord Stark was a cautious Lord, a trait which Wyman very much approved.

“The Skagosi have been forbidden ships,” he finally replied, almost challenging.

Wyman nodded his head in agreement. “They have. And I would not give them ships, my lord. I’d merely recruit them to serve under my captains, to fill out the crew, and to improve relations with the Skagosi.”

It took a few moments, which Lord Stark spent with a far off look in his eyes, but he finally nodded. “You may rewater on Skane and establish a base for that purpose. It remains Stark land, however. You may recruit the Skagosi as crew, but may not give them ships or allow them to command.”

Wyman’s smile was genuine. “Many thanks, Lord Stark. My captains will be well pleased.” And, he thought in satisfaction, I now have my lord’s permission to recruit thousands of Skagosi to man my soon to be built ships. I need only supply captains and officers.

The North had a constant manpower shortage. Conditions were harsh and took a toll on its people. Having access to another pool of men to draw on was a blessing.

Now all he had to do was determine which of his captains was best suited to approach the Skagosi. Not many would be keen to engage with people who were reputed to still practice cannibalism. That was a problem for another day, he decided.

He bowed low. “If it pleases you, my lord, I’ll take my leave now. I have much to see to.”

Eddard Stark nodded his head absently, a far off look still in his eyes. Wyman wished he could see what memories he was wrapped up in. He thought it would answer many of his questions.

Regardless, he left his lord’s solar and visited the ravenry. He sent messages to his sons informing them of the status of matters. They would know what to do.

By the following morning he was ready to depart. After exchanging pleasantries with Lord and Lady Stark, who appeared quite put out, he and his party left Winterfell. He hoped to be returning soon.

Once they were out of sight of the gates, he summoned Ser Ondrew. The knight was reliable and loyal, and a better than fair horseman.

“You are to ride ahead with all haste to White Harbor. Take remounts with you. Avoid Bolton lands. Have Marlon and Wendel gather all rumors concerning Jon Snow’s mother. I want to be briefed as soon as I arrive. Speak to no one else of this.”

Ser Ondrew saluted without any further discussion. He was well used to his lord’s seemingly idiocentric commands. He lost no time gathering three remounts and taking off at a trot, leading his additional horses on a line.

Wyman settled back into his wagon. No, he wasn’t displeased with what he’d accomplished. He and the Manderly family had gained much. But being denied the boy grated his pride. He’d get to the bottom of it. He had the men and the coin to uncover most secrets. It would just take time.

The trip back to White Harbor was marginally faster than the trip to Winterfell. Near two months on the road and declining alcohol and a third portion at meals had made some improvement to his physique. He thought he might be able to ride again in a year or so.

When he arrived in his city, he was pleased to see it bustling. White Harbor was normally a busy place, but the level of activity he saw was several steps above. Matters were proceeding apace.

He was glad to finally return to the Merman’s Court. He’d missed his home. 

His solar was down a short corridor just off his chambers. He was pleased to see that Wylis had posted guards at the beginning of the corridor. The space between solar and hall kept overly sharp ears from hearing any conversation behind the solar’s heavy door, while still ensuring proper security.

His two sons were both in attendance, as was his cousin Marlon. They’d kept his seat at the head of the table vacant, which he both expected and appreciated. Unlike most noble houses he was proud of how unified House Manderly stood. No underhanded power plays occurred within House Manderly.

His speech to Lady Catelyn about fearing Marlon’s reaction had been greatly exaggerated. While he had no doubt that Marlon had considered the possibility of his sons or grandsons inheriting White Harbor someday, he knew he had no real expectation of it. Still, it was best to be safe rather than sorry, hence his decision to arrange for Marlon’s sons to have holdings of their own.

The fact that it helped safeguard the southern approach to the North was purely coincidental. 

“Cousin,” he greeted Marlon warmly as he entered. A brief embrace confirmed that his grey haired cousin was, as always, wearing mail under his woolens. “Did Martyn and Mattis have any difficulty?”

“Nay,” his cousin replied jovially. Despite being of age with one another, the years had been kinder to Marlon. Or perhaps his time in the practice yard better explained why Marlon was so much fitter than Wyman, he mused sourly. 

While both were big men, Marlon stood taller. While stout, Marlon’s was more muscle than fat. He had not neglected his duty as commander of White Harbor’s garrison, and had stayed active in the training yard and on patrol.

Wyman sighed contentedly, putting his jealousy of his cousin’s fitness behind him. He’d long ago learned it was better to focus on his successes, not his failures. Another portion of his plan was well in progress. He could only pray to the Seven that there were no difficulties executing it.

The plan was to primarily focus on building the youngest’s keep first rather than unduly divide the craftsmen and laborers. It was better, he felt, to have one completed keep than have two incomplete keeps, if troubles were to arrive. Of course, it would be best to have two completed keeps, but logistics and time were problems difficult to overcome. 

Mattis’ keep would be located on the north side of the headwaters of the Fever River, to reduce exposure to the blood gnats. It’s location was strategically important, as it would also provide support for Moat Cailin which was a mere day’s march away. Just as importantly, it had pasture land for cattle as well as the ability to secure the river trade between the center of the North and his brother’s holding at the river’s mouth.

While Mattis’ stone keep was being worked on, Martyn would explore the mouth of the river to determine a defensible location for his holding. He would construct a timber ringfort to mark the location, as well as a small, rudimentary port. Even with a reduced workforce, it would take only a moon or two to complete. Martyn would also be tasked with establishing farms along both banks of the river. The distance from the Neck reduced the exposure to blood gnats, which was a blessing.

Wyman was of the opinion that the western trade routes and agriculture needed to be developed quickly. He had great quantities of silver, but even his wealth would be quickly exhausted if coin always flowed out of and never into his treasury.

He turned to Wendel, his youngest. “Did your archery contest produce the results we hoped?”

Wendel had suggested that they proclaim a contest for archers only. The prize money was generous, with first place being awarded three hundred golden dragons and with steadily smaller prizes all the way to ten dragons for tenth place. The hope was to attract archers from all over the Seven Kingdoms.

Wendell looked pleased. “Yes, father. Many hundreds participated. I recruited two hundred of the best and formed four companies. As instructed I moved them up the White Knife for training.”

“And the cost?” he asked curiously. He had approved the idea of a contest hoping to not only attract potential recruits, but also to entice them to spend time and money in his city.

Wendell’s smile grew wider. “As you thought, over the week of the contest they kept our inns and taverns full. The tax collected somewhat offset the cost of the prize purse. Many of the young men who did not win a spot with our archers found themselves too poor to travel. We offered them positions on our trading ships, which they were only too glad to accept.”

Wyman felt smugly satisfied. They’d spent, but taken some back in, so the outlay was not as great as it could have been. And they had the beginnings of a corps of archers, in addition to more sailors. All in all, it was a success.

“And you Wylis?” he asked hopefully. So far, other than losing Jon, things were going well.

His son shook his head. “The expedition to establish holdings on the Fever River redirected much of our skilled labor force. The number of hulls under construction has slowed down as our shipwrights, carpenters and smiths have become scarcer. I’ve sent a ship each to Braavos and Pentos to recruit journeymen and apprentices. We’ll more than replenish our numbers with the bounty being offered, but it will take some time.”

Looking at Marlon, he asked, “I take it we are having the same problem with improving the city’s defenses?”

Seeing his cousin’s nod of agreement, he rubbed his chin, thinking. “I thought as much. We have too many irons in the fire, too many demands on our skilled workforce. We’ll need even more before we’re through expanding. Send ships to Lorath, Tyrosh and Myr. We’ll need to expand the reach of our recruitment efforts across all trades.” He thought for a moment. “Send two ships to Myr. We need to acquire some glassblowers and glaziers, as many as we can.”

He saw his sons and cousin exchange a look. Here it comes, he thought. He knew his suddenly frantic activity would eventually give rise to questions, even if they all individually supported his proposals.

It was Wylis who spoke, as befitted the heir. “Why so much, father? Please don’t mistake me, I approve of our expansion, but why now, why so quickly, when before you were content to keep our silver in chests?”

Wyman stretched out his legs. He knew this question would be coming. He could hardly discuss his nightmare, they’d think he’d taken leave of his senses. If he’d believed it, and assuming he was in his right mind, he’d even agree with them. No, there were perfectly sound business and political reasons for his sudden activity.

“It has occurred to me that silver locked away does not grow in value. Silver in the form of improved defenses, keeps, a new port, and hundreds of new farms expands our family’s influence and power,” he said with a nod to Marlon. “If our silver is in the form of ships, we become even wealthier in trade,” he continued looking at Wylis. “And with the increase in lands and ships, we’ll need men,” he finished, gesturing to Wendel. 

Wylis ran his hand through his hair. “So we’re spending, we’re investing, to become richer and to preserve the family influence?” he asked hesitantly. 

It did not escape Wyman’s notice that his son looked to both his brother and cousin before speaking. This pleased him. If Wylis was going to express concerns to him, as his lord, it showed his heir had the intelligence and willingness to collaborate with the extended family before acting. The family was more likely to survive and prosper if it presented a united front. 

If something happened to him, he was confident the family would be in good hands with Wylis.

“Exactly,” he replied. “Before I pass on, I want to see two hundred Manderly ships plying the Shining, Narrow Seas, and Shivering Seas. I want Manderly farms and homesteads dotting the south. I want White Harbor to be a strong, shining beacon throughout Westeros. I want my heirs to have the strongest forces in the North, other than Lord Stark’s. I want our treasury full and our name feared and respected.”

His visage darkened. “On that note, Lord Stark refused our request to betroth Jon Snow to Wynafryd. He even refused to allow the boy to squire for Marlon.” All three of his kinsmen looked indignant at hearing that news. He pressed forward. “His excuses sounded weak, his reasoning flawed. There is a mystery there. What do we know of his mother?”

It was Wendel who answered. His second son preferred the company of mummers and minstrels, and so was the most informed when it came to rumors. “We don’t. There are at least three stories making the rounds. His mother was a sailor’s daughter from the Three Sisters. Or a Dornish wet nurse named Wylla. Or Lady Ashara Dayne, who threw herself from a tower when Lord Stark took away their child. No one knows for sure and Lord Stark has not answered the question.”

Wyman took a deep breath. He had no doubt that all of his recent gains would be wiped away if Lord Stark caught wind of this, but Jon Snow was important. Not because of that fool dream, but because what lord would deny his son White Harbor? 

He wouldn’t unless there was some greater prize or greater danger. Wyman Manderly was determined to unearth whatever that prize or danger might be. It could have an impact on his plans. He did not like unknown variables. They were almost always bad for business.

He turned to Wylis. “Select a reliable captain. Someone clever and discreet. I want him and his ship headed out on the morning tide. I want answers to who Jon Snow’s mother might be, not rumors and gossip. He’s to take trade goods, whatever may be on hand, and travel to the Sisters and Starfall. He’s to make no other stops. He’s not to attract attention. He’s to return as soon as possible.”

Wylis nodded grimly. His son was no fool. He knew Lord Stark would disapprove of this venture. “I know just the man, father.”

“Good. See to it.” He yawned. “And now, my kinsmen, please excuse me. I’m exhausted.”

The next few months passed in a whirlwind of activity. More skilled craftsmen were recruited, primarily from Braavos. The Braavosi had little difficulty adapting to White Harbor’s culture and environment, so he counted that part of the plan as a success. 

He was less successful in recruiting from the other Free Cities. They were still a slave based society, even if some no longer practiced slavery, at least in theory. He would need to purchase men and women if he wanted to tap into their available manpower. He could not see Lord Stark approving buying slaves, even if he promised to free them upon their arrival at White Harbor.

Still, the speed of ship construction increased, as did the improvements to the harbor fortifications and city walls. That was good.

Recruitment of armsmen, however, slowed down considerably. The available local manpower was drying up as farms were offered and trading and fishing ships were commissioned. 

Young men may be adventurous, but most had the sense to pursue a trade rather than a life of war. Or at least their mothers and sweethearts did, and steered their sons and husbands in more prudent directions.

His messenger to Driftwood Hall bore fruit. Hundreds of Skagosi, or Skagossons as they preferred to be called, enlisted on his whaling ships. Dozens of his ships were beginning to prowl the Shivering Sea. This temporarily alleviated his shortage of sailors, at least for his whaling ships, though not farmers or soldiers.

His envoys to Deepdown and Kingshall on Skagos never returned. He never learned if they were lost on the treacherous currents and rocks surrounding the island, or if the natives simply took a disliking to them. He decided not to follow up. He suspected the two Skagosson lords would reach out soon enough, as they saw their Driftwood Hall rivals wearing castle forged steel and spending the coin they earned serving on his ships. 

He’d established the base on Skane, nominally for watering and resupplying his whaling ships. As the months rolled by, the base expanded, taking on the look of an encampment. Large earth works surrounded barracks and warehouses, all of which were built around and in close proximity to fresh water springs. And as the Skagossons had a well deserved reputation for violence, it was simple economic necessity which compelled him to station several companies of crossbowmen and spearmen to protect his investment.

It proved an excellent location to process the whales and seals harvested. Preliminary estimates were that the profits would be considerable. The demand in Essos was especially high. He couldn’t help but feel pleased when he saw he was actually making money on this particular project.

He gave orders to expand the number of whalers in his service. Not because he was preparing for war, even if the whalers built could be easily converted to warships. No, he knew more Skagossons would want to join his crews. He needed more ships if he were to employ more men and earn more coin. It was simply good business.

If he’d exceeded the scope of permission granted by Lord Stark, it was only by a small amount. Everything could be torn down quickly, if need be. Or expanded quickly, he thought smugly. In the unlikely event that his nightmare proved true, the North possessed a staging area directly into the heart of winter.

Martyn’s ringfort was done, as was his simple port. Shipwrights were already laying down the hulls of longships along the Saltspear. 

He’d decided on longships for the western seas as they were suitable for both trade and war. Besides, if the Iron Born had used them with effect for millennia, they must be well suited to local conditions. He still did not know where he’d find the crews to fully man them, though, once complete. That was a problem for another day.

The surrounding farms were slowly being filled with families. He worried that they weren’t being populated quickly enough, but couldn’t see how he could speed the flow of families west, especially with lands still being available in the east.

Mattis’ keep was proceeding at a relatively good pace. Despite that, it would be at least another three years before it was done. He begrudged the time. He still needed to reinforce Martyn’s holdings. While he had the coin and the material, he simply didn’t have the men.

He had to suppress the desire to reconsider the slave answer again. He thought it perfectly legal, as long as he freed them. Still, the lesson of Jorah Mormont was not lost on him and so he held back even as he cursed himself for his cowardice.

And then it all changed. 

Wylis’ man, Captain Tumin, was a short, slender man. He lacked the imposing presence that Wyman had grown accustomed to seeing in White Harbor’s ship masters. But his eyes were alight with cleverness, his movements crisp and neat.

He gratefully accepted when Wyman offered him peach brandy from Myr. Wyman no longer indulged, but he enjoyed smelling the aromas when others did. It would be the closest thing he’d have to the real thing for a long while, he knew.

Once the captain quenched his thirst, Wyman asked him the question that had been nagging him for months. “What light can you shed in the identity of Lord Stark’s natural son’s mother?”

Tumin grimaced. “Not much, m’lord,” he said regretfully. “The sailor’s daughter's rumor was false. She’s married to a tavern keeper in Sisterton, with a half dozen babes. One of which is of an age with the Snow boy.”

Wyman cut himself an apple as he gestured to the man to continue. He couldn’t help himself but to listen attentively. Even if he couldn’t provide an answer for the mystery, he thought it would be a starting point even if he could disprove others.

“Starfall was even more confusing, m’lord. The wet nurse, Wylla, is married to an elderly knight with nearly a dozen children. Including a girl and a boy born within a year of each other, and Lord Stark’s bastard,” he said, only to flinch when he realized his poor word choice. “Begging your pardon, m’lord.”

He nodded impatiently. “Get on with it, man.” He wanted the man’s answers, not his manners. As Lord of White Harbor, a city of silver miners and sailors, he’d heard far worse.

Tumin appeared to take a moment to collect his wits. “Yes, m’lord,” he said, clearing his throat. “Lady Dayne gave birth to a stillborn daughter a few months before Lord Stark arrived at Starfall. When he arrived, he was carrying an infant boy and the Dayne’s family sword, Dawn. I could not determine who the boy was, though Wylla was his wet nurse.”

Wyman raised his hand to stop him talking. He needed to think. After a few minutes, he asked, “do you have a date when Lord Stark arrived at Starfall with the boy?”

“The first few weeks of 283 A.C., m’lord.”

It was with dawning realization that Wyman realized what this all meant. The time corresponded to the battle Lord Stark and his trusted men engaged in at the Tower of Joy. It was said that Lord Stark killed Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, in single combat. He was too late to save Lyanna, his sister, who had died of a fever.

He’d bet every silver coin in his chest that the fever that claimed Lyanna Stark’s life was a birthing fever. 

Jon Snow was a bastard, but he was not a Stark bastard. He was a Targaryen bastard. Lord Stark was trying to protect his nephew from King Robert’s wrath by hiding him in Winterfell.

That meant Lyanna must have gone willingly with Prince Rhaegar, he thought. Lord Stark was not likely to protect the boy if he was the product of rape. 

Then he had another thought. What were three Kingsguard doing at the Tower of Joy if Lyanna went willingly? 

His stomach dropped as the answer came to him. They were not protecting a bastard Targaryen. They were protecting a Targaryen king, or at least a prince.

But this reasoning made no sense. It was doubtful the High Septon would have approved a second marriage for Prince Rhaegar. No Targaryen since Maegor the Cruel had taken more than one wife. Since the death of the last of the dragons, the Targaryens’ ability to coerce the Faith to ignore the tenets of their religion had fallen considerably. 

It was a quandary. He finally decided to set aside those thoughts, at least for now. It was a knot he could not unravel with his current knowledge.

He looked up from his thoughts to see Captain Tumin looking at him, a crafty look in his eye. Wyman was fairly sure he hadn’t connected the dots, but suspected that he knew he had. He would have to be gotten rid of. 

He considered for a moment. Then he smiled. A foolish man had two problems and solved them separately. A wise man used one problem to solve another.

“You’ve done well,” he praised as he handed over a fat bag of gold. “This is for your time. I have another task for you, if you want to earn even more.”

Tumin’s eyes lit with interest. “Of course, m’lord. I’m at your service.”

Wyman nodded in satisfaction. “I’ve been in contact with the Citadel. I’ve questioned what crops might grow in the Neck, which is of concern to me as my cousin’s sons now have holdings close by. They suggested something called rice, among other things. I need a good man to travel to Yi Ti, where this rice is grown, and bring a ship’s worth back. And some farmers who know how to grow the stuff. I will pay very well. Are you interested?”

The captain nearly leapt out of his seat. It was a sailor’s dream to travel to and from Yi Ti. It was near the stuff of legends. To be given a ship and trusted with the journey would make his reputation. 

He fell to his knees. “I’m your man, m’lord.”

“Good. See Wylis. He’ll make the arrangements,” he said dismissing the man. Just as he reached the door, he called out, “Captain Tumin. You did well. Thank you.”

The captain saluted as he swaggered out the door. Wyman collapsed back in his seat and thought. He wondered if he’d made a mistake, letting the man live. He hadn’t connected the dots, but he was a clever man. Given enough time, he might.

After a while, he quelled his doubts. It was done. Besides, Wyman abhorred waste and the captain was a talented man. He still might prove useful to House Manderly.

He focused on the positives. Tumin was out of the way for a year or two, possibly forever if the voyage did not go well. If he returned, he might bring back a solution to his food problem. Either way, the secrets he’d revealed would stay secret, for a while at least. 

Now what to do about Jon Snow.

Finally, he grimaced. There was no way around it. He’d have to visit Lord Stark at Winterfell again. He wondered if he’d keep his head when it was all said and done.

W&M W&M W&M

AN: From what I can gather from the internet, whalers were often converted to privateers in the early days of whaling, which is where I got the idea they could be converted to warships.


End file.
